


fireworks

by exquisitelymorose



Category: Gone Girl (2014), Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn
Genre: F/F, Gentle gays, Pining, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exquisitelymorose/pseuds/exquisitelymorose
Summary: "She considers leaving.But then there’s a wave. Three fingers shooting out from where they where gripping the brown bottle and a smirk, small and sort of snide, just like Margo likes."
Relationships: Rhonda Boney/Margo Dunne
Kudos: 13





	fireworks

It makes a lot of sense, she thinks, watching Rhonda. 

She’s sipping a beer in a white shirt, one hand at her mouth, the other flipping a thick cut of meat. There’s music playing, friendly chatter throughout the yard, more drinks being poured. People sound happy. 

And Rhonda, well, she looks fine. 

Margo isn’t sure she’s ever seen the other woman look happy, not truly. But to be fair, she’s not sure she’s felt true happiness in the last year either.

Her hair is down, something Margo has come to appreciate. In her plainclothes she looks almost normal. Save for that look in her eye, always on guard, always observing. She never really looks at ease.

Even here, now. In her own backyard, with people she should only be comfortable with. Just enjoying a warm day, Rhonda still seems tense. And that, Margo thinks, makes sense.

She considers leaving.

The only familiar people she spots are casual bar patrons who know her just for pouring beers and breaking up brawls. None of them would be particularly thrilled to see her. Margo Dunne, sister of chaos, miserable local and in some salacious late night conversations, rumoured brother fucker. And now, a guest at Rhonda Boneys 4th of July party. 

When the other woman had asked her, casual over a Thursday evening whiskey, she’d thought nothing of it. They’d spent time together this last year, in different ways, at different times. In the beginning with Nick, an Amazing Amy support group of sorts. Then they’d lost him to her and the baby. Suddenly it was just the two of them, a sort of static weekly schedule where’d they’d commiserate, swap sharp jokes, sometimes watch a game. 

It was casual, informal. The type of thing Margo looked forward to but never counted on - not an obligation or something they even talked about. They simply saw each other when they did and didn’t when they didn’t, no questions asked.

The most time they’d spent together outside of The Bar was at the grocery store they both happened to shop at. Seemingly the only two people in North Carthage who made good use of the late night hours. But it hadn’t seemed strange to be invited into her home, with her people. 

They’re friends. That’s what friends do.

But Margo suddenly finds herself feeling unsure. Like she didn’t put enough effort into her outfit, like she should’ve asked if she could bring a dish or a dessert rather than the small bottle of whiskey she plans to pour for Rhonda when the evening gets quiet. Like maybe she should’ve just said no to avoid having to wonder if this is just some sort of pity invite. Strange, reclusive Margo, surely she’d have nothing to do on a holiday. 

But then there’s a wave. Three fingers shooting out from where they where gripping the brown bottle and a smirk, small and sort of snide, just like Margo likes. 

“Real dump,” Margo whistles as she finds herself sidling up to Rhonda at a grill most men only dream of. 

“Never did have an eye.”

“I was kidding.”

“Guess you’ve never been before, have you?”

“No,” Margo shoves her hands in her back pockets, “think there’s some sort of law, like, at least 12 months before you can step foot on the personal property of someone whose arrested you.”

“Ha,” Rhonda lets out humourlessly, “I think the window for those jokes is closing, Dunne. Been long enough,”she swigs from her bottle.

“Oh yeah? What’re you going to do? Arrest me?” Margo bumps her shoulder against the other womans because it feels right, it feels natural, like a thing you might do on a date, flirting. And then she swallows because that’s not what they’re doing and she’s no good at that anyway. But Rhonda doesn’t seem to notice. She rolls her eyes, smiles into her beer and lifts the lid on the grill again.

They stand for awhile, surveying the yard together. They’ve become comfortable with silence these last few months.

“Get me another, will you?” Rhonda drawls and Margo doesn’t even argue. It’s good to have a purpose, she thinks, to look like she belongs in this yard, with this woman. 

She returns with one for Rhonda, one for herself and there’s a man there. His arms are crossed, his face kind of serious. Rhonda mirrors him. But when Margo joins them, she softens and introduces them. He’s Michael, he’s also on the force and she’s interrupted a conversation they both seem happy to abandon, about some ongoing case. 

Michael asks Margo about The Bar, she asks him, in her own polite way that isn’t quite polite, about his life and he’s happy to tell. Suddenly, she’s in conversation with a stranger who doesn’t care who she is or what happened to her. They exchange small talk until they find common ground with hockey and find themselves at a picnic table. Michaels wife joins and then a friend and another.

Two hours pass and Margo is at a picnic table with five other people, remnants of hotdog and burger buns strewn in front of them, fresh beers being cracked. She feels at ease. 

Fingertips meet her shoulder which suddenly feels warm, maybe burnt. She hadn’t even considered sun block on her way out. When she notices Rhondas hand, warm and curious on her skin, she has to wonder if the warmth and the way she flushes has anything to do with the sun at all.

“Thought you might want this,” the older woman, her dark honeyed hair and loose, questionably tipsy smile, stun Margo into a brief silence. She thinks Rhonda notices and that’s why she leans forward, her stomach brushing Margos shoulder as she settles the beer bottle on the table in front of her. Then she’s gone, back to small conversations with other people. 

The sun is setting when talk of fireworks starts. They’ll be happening, as always, down on the riverbank. Everyone will gather and collect their individual findings for one massive display. Margos seen it tens of times over. She wonders, idly, if Nick and Amy will go. It seems like something she’d want to do. Dress the kid up, pack their most stunning picnic blankets, set up a little spot for everyone to fawn over them, to take pictures. Mother of the year.

“Nah, I’ve seen it all before,” she hears Rhonda saying to Michaels wife, “I’ve got plenty of picking up to do anyway,” she gestures to the yard strewn with cans, bottles, food, “but you guys have fun.”

Michael tells Margo it was nice to meet her and she genuinely believes him. He picks up his cooler, slings an arm around his wife and turns toward to gate. The yard is suddenly empty.

“No explosives?” Rhonda calls from where she’s picking up an abandoned seltzer can.

“I think I’ve had enough excitement in the way of danger this year,” Margo breathes. Then she too starts picking up cans, pitching them into the recycling bag Rhondas dragged into the centre.

The other woman smiles at her, just barely, and they work silently, an occasional hum along with the music still playing. 

Rhonda is stood, wiping her hands on her knees when Margo finishes placing a stack of dirtied paper plates into the trash. It’s not perfect but the surface is clean.

“I brought something.”Rhonda raises an eyebrow. 

When Margo emerges from the house where she’s stashed the whiskey bottle, Rhonda is sat on her cushioned patio set, feet up, head back. She looks at ease. Really. She cracks an eye and Margo shakes the bottle as she settles herself in the opposite chair. 

Her thank you is a smile, large and bold, “I’ll get glasses,” Rhonda says and starts to heave herself up but Margo extends a hand to stop her.

“Not afraid of cooties if you’re not.”

She simply settles back into her spot and watches as Margo takes a swig directly from the bottle. Then she passes it over. They both look away, as if to pretend they feel nothing in the brushing of their fingers.

“Michaels great.”

Rhonda swallows, “he is, yeah.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“I wanted you here.”

“Why?”

It looks for a moment like Rhonda is about to pass the bottle back but she stops at the question and settles it between her thighs. Then she fixes Margo with a look.

“To spend some real time with you.”

“The Bar isn’t real?”

“It is, but you work there. You don’t have a choice.”

“I’d still choose it. If you were there,” a moment of silence passes between them, “besides, you didn’t really have the chance to spend real time with me tonight, did you?”

“I am now.”

“Oh, so this was a set up, huh?” Margo smirks, “to have some alone time.”

“Is it working?”

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?”

They lapse back into silence, flushed and airless. Rhonda takes another sip from the bottle and passes it back. Margo considers catching her hand, holding it in her own, but decides against it. Night settles in quietly around them. A sound can be heard, low and resonant before it reaches a high pitched whine and the sky bursts with colour.

“Kinda pretty, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, guess it is,” Margo says, eyes unmoved from where the fireworks play against the planes of the other womans face. 

“Sure you didn’t want to go?”

“No, I’d rather be here with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know this fandom is quiet but if you read and appreciate, let me know. I find these two to be a wonderful exercise in writing.


End file.
